Being Christmas
by rollwithbutter
Summary: Being Christmas, Annie should have been happy. But something has her feeling less than her usual bubbly self. Was it something Mitchell did?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Happy Holidays, ****_Being Human_**** style! This will probably be two chapters.**

* * *

"No. Mitchell, absolutely not. I will not have that - that bloody _thing_ inside this house."

John Mitchell stood outside the little pink house in Bristol, bewildered and freezing. Inside, where he would much rather be, was Annie, barring his entrance. From the closeness of her voice, Mitchell judged the irate ghost to be squatting in the vicinity of the letter slot.

Frowning, Mitchell shifted a cardboard box approximately the size of a small coffin from knee to knee as he balanced awkwardly on the stoop. The box was the cause of his trouble. Annie had slammed the door in his face the moment she saw it, leaving Mitchell engulfed in the opening breaths of a howling snow squall.

The storm was just getting its legs under it, churning up and down alleys and sending funnels of snowdevils swirling down the white-dusted streets. Snowflakes caught in Mitchell's dark hair and lashes and settled across his cheeks, where they formed feathery tessellations of ice. Being dead, his skin hadn't the warmth to melt them. "Annie, this is ridiculous! I only did what you asked. C'mon, open the door, it's freezing!" called Mitchell, carefully restraining the ticking time bomb in his voice as he addressed the mail slot.

It had been a black day of interminable torture. But such was the life of a hospital porter during a Bristol winter. Black ice and unexpected snow had made for a busy Accident and Emergency department; stress had been high and tempers short. A string of gory accidents, all seeming to involve substantial amounts of blood, had wound from one end of Mitchell's shift to the other. All day he emptied pail after pail of rose-tinged water. By the time he ran his badge to punch his time out, his self-control was all but shredded. Mitchell slouched into the snowy streets, miserable and tetchy.

His walk home, brisk even at the best of times, was today cruelly biting. The only good thing that could be said for the cold was that it had reduced the number of morsels scurrying along with their tempting chorus of warm-blooded siren songs. The sight of his own door as he rounded the corner of Windsor Terrace brought a burst of relief.

The wind howled a sudden violent gust, sending Mitchell sprinting for his familiar portal to safety and comfort. As his key turned in the lock, all he wanted was to sink into the warmth of his own bed and bask in gloomy black solitude. Instead, he found Annie on the bottom stair, eagerly awaiting his arrival. She wore a giddy look that announced quite clearly that she was over the moon about something. Beaming, oblivious to the strain on his face and the testiness behind his slumped shoulders, Annie pounced with characteristic enthusiasm.

"You're back!"

"I come back every day, Annie, there's no need to set out banners and balloons over it," grumped Mitchell, flinging his bag behind the coat rack and tearing his scarf from around his face. His nose burned with cold and, despite overcast skies, he was sure he'd gone snow blind.

Annie tripped across the foyer, light as only a ghost could do. "Well, can't I be glad to see you anyway?" She stood behind Mitchell and helped him with his coat, in case he hadn't got the procedure down pat at some point over the last hundred years or so.

Mitchell rolled his shoulders under her gentle hands and let out a long, cathartic sigh as his nerves began to unclench. He gave Annie a slack smile. "Sorry. It's been a shite day."

Annie's smile faltered for the briefest of moments, then returned full-force. Alarm bells rang somewhere in the lower compartments of Mitchell's brain. No idiot he, the vampire backed purposefully toward the stairs. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Well, but Mitchell," Annie began, looking at her feet and picking the hem of her sleeve like a bashful school girl awaiting a kiss from a clueless suitor. "I was really hoping you could pop back out to pick something up for me."

Mitchell eyed the stairwell. "What is it?" he asked, fully aware that he was making a grievous mistake.

Annie gave him full-throttle doe-eyes. "I wanted to put the Christmas tree up today. Would you get one? Please? We can decorate, and watch specials on the telly, and I'll make pigs in a blanket if you'll pick up some bacon from Tesco, and -"

"Oh Annie, can't it wait?" Mitchell broke in shortly. "I can't go back out today. It'll be the death of me. Anyway, it's not even Thanksgiving."

"It's just that it's the first snow -"

"And a right mess of the roads it's making, too."

"- and it's tradition to put up the tree during the first snow!"

"I've never heard any such thing. And I'm sure I'd have heard of it by now if it were an actual, _real_ thing."

"It doesn't have to be a _real thing_ to be tradition. Anyway, it's _my_ thing. I thought you knew that," countered Annie, a note of hurt in her voice. How calculated that hurt might be Mitchell could not say. He sighed wearily, acknowledging his defeat as it loomed on the horizon. He supposed he _did_ recall one aenemic flurry the day Annie decided to erect their tree last year, although she had never made it clear that the two events were connected. Even after a hundred years, it was still a mystery why women expected a man to divine such things without being told, as if simply caring for them should have rendered him a bloody psychic by now, and made his true nature as a slightly self-absorbed vampire a moot point.

Mitchell threw out one last plea. "Are you _sure_ it can't wait, Annie?" He eyed his dripping scarf with genuine trepidation.

"Please please please? We could have it done before George gets home, we can surprise him!"

"George is Jewish."

"He still liked the tree last year."

"I'm dropping your fecking tree in the hall the moment I get back, and don't bother me with what happens to it after that. I plan on being asleep."

Though disappointed by Mitchell's refusal to decorate, Annie let it pass in light of her greater victory. "You'll get it then? Thank you, thank you!" She kissed Mitchell's wintery cheeks and sealed his fate with an excited handclap. There was no turning back on his word now. "Mm, you even smell like Christmas."

"I smell like disinfectant and sick," Mitchell growled. "Why did you even let me take my coat off?" He eased back into frigid leather with a disgusted shrug. Winding his damp scarf around his throat with a final glowering look of supreme resentment, Mitchell cast himself out the door and back into the swirling snow.

"Get a nice one from one of the lots!" Annie called. "A Douglas fir. No no, a spruce. Yes, get a blue spruce! Or possibly a larch, unless that's not an evergreen, I'm not _actually_ sure..."

The ghost watched fondly as Mitchell flapped an irritated hand over his shoulder before becoming lost to the dense thicket of flakes.

* * *

None of the Christmas tree lots were open. Their fenced in yards weren't even stocked with trees; it was too early in the season. Mitchell had expected as much, and wasted only an hour needlessly fighting crowds and elbowing aside other belligerent shoppers. After determining he had put enough effort into the search for a live tree, he opted for plan B, the Tesco Superstore, where, in a strategic ploy to bleed shoppers dry from the very earliest opportunity, the entryway had already been plastered with a dizzying array of synthetic holiday paraphernalia.

He found what he was looking for immediately after entering the automated doors; artificial trees, boxed spruces and pines, plain and pre-lit. The pre-lit trees drew his attention with their glittering lights. They came in a rainbow assortment of colors; blues, reds, multi, and traditional white. Some blinked, some twinkled, some alternated patterns, and some even faded in and out in time to music. Mitchell chose a six-foot spruce, whose branches sported a light flocking of sprayed-on snow, as if cut fresh from a field in the middle of a snow storm. It had white lights. Mitchell felt certain that Annie would fancy something traditional over any of the tacky, newfangled dance-party trees.

Exhaustion beyond all rational belief engulfed him once on the street. The black, gnawing thing that sprang up as he wrestled mop-fulls of diluted blood had never fully settled. Yet, as much as that inner beast growled and raged, it lost power when weighed against the possibility of bringing a smile to Annie's sweet face. As Mitchell walked out of the store with the tree box settled snug under his arm, the world had seemed a shade brighter.

So to be turned away so callously, as though he hadn't bent over backwards for Annie, as if he hadn't tried his damndest to please her, was a wrenching slap in the face. "I thought you'd like it, Annie."

"Like it?" Annie snorted in derision, a harsh sound completely uncharacteristic for the usually gentle ghost. "Mitchell, it's terrible! It's not even alive! Take it back and bring home a nice, healthy, _living_ one, like in the Christmas specials, _like I asked you to!_"

"I only thought that since George nearly killed the last one -"

Deafening silence from inside.

"Christ, fine, fine! Jesus, you want a live tree, I'll get you one!" Seething, Mitchell spun from the door and hurtled into the cutting wind. He did not take the pre-lit artificial spruce, boxed neatly in its cardboard coffin. Instead, he upended it behind a trash bin, where it landed in an accumulating snowbank. A sheet of snow cascaded from the top of the bin, covering the box and sealing it within a white tomb. "I'll do that for you, Annie, although I don't know why. Nothing I ever do will make you happy!" Then he tore into the night in a state stormier than the driving storm could ever hope to achieve.

Inside, Annie sank against the door and burst into tears.

* * *

**AN: Reviews! I perform for treats. C'mon, Being Human fandom, let's show those supportive Hobbit readers what's what. (Just kidding to those who are both, haha)**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Alright, it's looking like three chapters instead of two. Not because of length; I just liked where the break came. Enjoy, treat me to a review if you've got a minute. Make my Christmas. :)**

* * *

_"Nothing I do could ever make you happy, Annie!"_

It wasn't true. Mitchell made Annie happy, of course he did. Loads and loads of happy. Happy, happy, happy, that was Annie Claire Sawyer, to a T.

Except that it wasn't. Not today. And Annie _should_ have been happy. She loved the snow, loved the holiday season and all its cheer. It was the one time of year when people could be counted on to be lovely to one another. Strangers could greet each other on the streets with warmth and perform all the little acts of kindness that, to Annie's mind, should be common occurrences year round.

Only, Annie wasn't a part of that world anymore, was she? She couldn't bump shoulders with strangers and stutter half-laughing apologies afterward; She couldn't exchange smiles and pleasantries in Christmas-clad shops smelling of gingerbread and holly. Instead, here she was, frozen in the house where she died, packed away like Mitchell's sad little tree in its sad little box.

Because that's all that she was now: A dead thing, presenting an illusion of life.

After a time, Annie rose from her huddle below the mail slot. She drifted into the kitchen. Mechanically, she took down a box of mixed Tetley teas and filled a kettle with water. Steam sang, and she poured a measure into a pink ceramic mug, then selected a teabag at random. George found her a half hour later, spilling ghostly tears into a frigid cup of watery Earl Grey.

George stomped snow across the checker-tiled foyer and peered into the kitchen. "Annie? What's wrong?"

Annie snuffled and dunked the Earl Grey. It was just an automated movement her hand made, up and down, sliding the bag up the side of the mug, down again. "George, I've done something awful." She looked up with such an expression of guilt and misery that George feared a dead body must be stashed somewhere in the house. He glanced toward the ceiling, wondering where Mitchell was, whether he was busy running damage control along the knife-blade edge of some looming catastrophe.

"He's not here," said Annie, reading his thoughts. She released Earl Grey into his cold bath. "George, I was _terrible_ to him." She burst into a fresh wave of tears. "I - I sent him away, and I shouldn't have, he hadn't done anything wrong. He was so _hurt_, I could see it in his eyes, but I still couldn't stop myself! It was all just so stupid, _I_ was so stupid..."

"Slow down, Annie. What happened?" George sat down and wrapped Annie's shaking shoulders into a one-armed hug.

Annie explained about her first snow tradition and how she had sent Mitchell out to buy a Christmas tree, even though she could see how tenuously he had been clinging to control. Dangerously, stupidly, _selfishly_, she had brushed his feelings aside in her desperation to foist a cheer on the house that she didn't even feel. Then Mitchell had innocently made his grievous faux pas of coming back carrying an _artificial_ tree, and everything had come crashing down in the most painfully ridiculous manner.

"He even had a fair point," Annie hung her head. "He said that since you'd done in the live tree we had last year -"

George groaned. Christmas Eve the preceding year had fallen two nights before the full moon. George had been showing all his usual wolfy signs, sniffing out day-old milk, complaining whenever Mitchell turned the stereo above a whisper, and generally testing the tensile strength of his vampire housemate's nerves. Later that night, George rose for a midnight ramble to relieve his bladder. For some reason eschewing the bathroom, George had instead dropped trou in the living room and addressed his need to the Christmas tree. His stream hit a bobble head elf dangling from the center branches, then arced over the string of lights. The lights, overlarge, vintage bulbs, purchased from a secondhand shop at Annie's insistence for their nostalgic appeal, unfortunately predated even the most basic safety requirements of indoor bulbs. The resulting shock woke George most rudely at the same time a small fire was incited n the boughs of the tree.

George's resounding shrieks brought Annie and Mitchell flying downstairs, where they found George alternately beating flames with a throw pillow and gesturing in wild outrage at his crotch. Although groggy, Mitchell had presence of mind enough to douse the electrical fire with an extinguisher rather than water, and they all spent Christmas morning in hospital with George while he recovered from the unfortunate shock to his manhood. After much hushed discussion in the hospital room, the three could only surmise that, with his sense of smell in such a heightened state, George had caught the fresh, strong scent of live pine coming from the living room and, half-asleep in a dream state, wandered into an imaginary forest to relieve himself in the arms of nature.

Annie's magnificent tree, once the hidden masterpiece of Totterdown, if not all of England, spent the holiday alone, in a state of singed disgrace.

"Yes, moving on," George cleared his throat with an aggrieved tic of his head.

Annie explained what she hadn't been able to say to Mitchell before. "I'm the fake tree, don't you see?"

"How do you mean?" George creased his brow.

Outside, snow swirled thickly against the window panes. Annie shook her head sadly. "I'm an illusion, I'm nothing. Just a tacky imitation of life."

George began to see, perhaps better than Annie herself. "And Mitchell?"

Annie furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Is Mitchell nothing? Just a tacky imitation?"

"Oh!" Annie's eyes opened wide. That the same logic could be extended to Mitchell had not occurred to her. Once George pointed it out, she felt terrible and hoped Mitchell hadn't made the same connection. It would have hurt him further. "But it's more than that, George. Mitchell can talk to people. He can _touch_ them. It's different for him."

"I thought you were doing better with that now."

"I - I can't be seen again," the ghost whispered. "I went out yesterday to empty the bins and a man fell off his bicycle he was so shocked. The bin bag must have looked like it was floating. So I dropped it and popped back inside before he could pick himself up and look again. At least I remembered not to use the door." She chuckled dismally. "Mitchell would have been proud."

"Mitchell would have understood, Annie. You could have told him."

"Oh, I _know_, George! That's what makes it so much worse!" Annie went to stand at the window, arms wrapped around herself. The window was a sheet of white. "I was just so bent on feeling sorry for myself that I tore him down with me. Oh, George, he could be _any_where right now, and the way he looked when he left... George, I'm very worried."

George was already getting his coat. "I'll find him, Annie. I'm sure he's fine. He's likely just holed up in a pub waiting out the snow."

Annie gave George a weak slip of sun then turned back to the window. "I'm sure you're right. But I won't be able to stop worrying until I see him back home and I can apologize."

* * *

George was _not_ sure that Mitchell was fine. He had seen his vampire friend on bad days; nothing was more disquieting than when Mitchell was poised at the outer limit of his humanity. On those days, Mitchell might easily fling himself into the void and luxuriate in every grisly second of free-fall.

The New Found Out had seen neither hide nor unkempt Irish hair. George had expected as much; the pub was not among Mitchell's usual hangouts. For an hour, George fought through icy winds, following a string of likely watering holes for several blocks before admitting defeat and returning home with stinging eyes and chapped cheeks. Annie met him at the door, a grim question in her eyes. George shook his head and shrugged, gagged into momentary silence from the cold in his throat. Annie's face fell.

"Annie, this doesn't necessarily mean anything bad has happened," George began once he could speak. "Mitchell's been at this for a while now. We should trust him. He can control himself." George tried to chase the note of doubt from his voice.

Annie nodded. She walked to the open door, hugging herself against a cold she couldn't feel. Across the street, the wind tore a wreath from a door. "Alright. He'll be fine. He'll come back after he's cooled down, that's just how he is. I can accept that. I trust him." Annie spoke calmly, surprising George. "But in the meantime," she said, stopping George before he could shuck his rigid coat, "will you bring the tree in?" She pointed to a rectangular hump in the snow.

George smiled. "He'll like that."

Annie forced a cheery expression. Her stomach contracted into a knot. "I hope so," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: OK, so I lied. I know I said two chapters. Then I said three. And now I'm saying four.**

* * *

"Oi! You, behind the bin. Know this bloke?"

George was crouched behind the snowed-in bins on the curb, excavating the unfortunate fake spruce from a miniature tundra. He glanced up. A cab was parked along the curb. The driver's window was down and a plump live tree was lashed to the roof. "Sorry?" said George, seeing no one inside the cab to identify other than the driver.

The driver leaned out, blinking against the snow. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy face. Sardonic amusement gleamed below a pair of thick, bristling brows. "I got a half-dead Irish chap in back w' a bloody hacksaw an' a tree on the roof. You know 'im? 'E mumbled summat abou' Winser Terrace then plonked out in the back. 'E's completely arseholed." He bustled around the back door and revealed a lanky figure sprawled face down across the seat.

George paled. "It's not actually bloody, is it? The - the hacksaw?"

"Wha'? Christ, no." The driver looked nervously at his senseless fare, wondering - not for the first time in the course of his career as a Bristol Yellow Cab driver - who or what exactly he had picked up.

Sighing with relief, George took out his wallet to pay the fare. "Well, that's alright then. Yes, from what I can see he belongs to us." He joined the driver in critical contemplation of the passenger's backside.

"You need to see 'is face? I can flip 'im over," the man offered helpfully.

"No, no, that's not necessary. He's ours. I would recognize those boots anywhere."

Shrugging, the cabbie cut the tree from the roof with a pocket knife. Together, he and George dragged it as far as the door and leaned it against the pink stucco. From the corner of his eye, George saw the curtains twitch as Annie peeked out. Seeing the cab, she disappeared, then popped up beside the open back door.

"Oh, Mitchell," the ghost sighed, "What a mess I've made."

In a voice muffled by vinyl, George heard Mitchell murmur, "We're not the trees, Annie."

Annie smiled and stroked Mitchell's damp hair. "I know."

"Nutter," the cabbie muttered. "Obsessed with trees. Let's get 'im up." The man bent over and grabbed Mitchell's arms, oblivious to Annie's presence. His shoulder passed through hers and he shivered. Annie moved aside and George took Mitchell's feet.

Together, they hustled Mitchell safely onto the sofa. The driver's ruddy complexion was exponentially deepened. George handed over a tenner. "Thanks for taking care of him."

The driver shrugged and pocketed his tip. "Lucky they sent 'im back at all." George looked a question, but the driver only handed him a plastic shopping bag and waved a jovial farewell salute. " 'Ad this on 'im, too. Night."

George shut the door and watched Annie fuss over Mitchell, plucking damp curls from his closed eyelids. She eased him up and unwound his scarf. She slipped his coat off and onto the floor. Mitchell's head lolled against her neck. Annie hugged him to her briefly before laying him back. "George, he's freezing!" She ran her hand down the length of Mitchell's leg. "His clothes are soaked through. Help me get him into something warm."

George closed his eyes. It had finally come to this. He berated himself in his head. _He's your mate, he'd do it for you._ Aloud, he said, "Go get a change of clothes. I'll bring the space heater down."

Annie returned with a pair of track pants, T-shirt, and a cable knit sweater Mitchell would rather have died than wear were he conscious. George turned the heater on full blast and aimed it at the frozen vampire on the sofa. He lay Mitchell's wet coat and jeans before the arid blast to dry.

Annie hunkered on her knees beside Mitchell. "Right. Skin the rabbit, then." George hefted Mitchell up. Annie had his shirt over his head in one magic swoop.

George was impressed. "You've done this before," he teased. "And here I thought you were a good girl."

"Well, you would be wrong." Annie smiled, both proud and embarrassed.

Weakly, Mitchell stirred. "I 'cn do it m'sef," he protested drunkenly. Only George's knack for language rendered his sentiments intelligible.

"Fine," said George, amused. He surrendered Mitchell's dry shirt and stood back with an air of feigned anticipation. "Have at it."

For several minutes, Mitchell attempted to fight his way through an arm hole. Finally, Annie took pity and set him right. "Oh, honestly, Mitchell, you're a mess," she sighed with fond exasperation, slipping the snug cotton gently over his head as he lounged in her arms. George sniggered.

" 'M sorry, Annie, I don' mean t' be," Mitchell murmured, retreating slowly into the recesses of unconsciousness as she took over. Annie pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid him back.

"I mean that in the best way," she smiled. To George, she said, "Now! Off with his pants. I'll turn around."

George held up his hands and backed from the room. "_That_ is all you. I'll just... erm, put up the tree, shall I?" He twitched around the corner in perturbation.

Annie blinked down at Mitchell. "Well. Here we are. Beats an accidental snog over a snowglobe, eh?" she joked, trying to whisk away her timidity. "Here goes."

Gingerly, Annie fingered the button of Mitchell's jeans. Her eyes flicked to Mitchell's face, alert for any signs of awareness. He continued breathing even and calm, shivering slightly. With a bolstering breath, Annie slipped the metal button through its buttonhole, then sank back on her heels, expecting Mitchell to begin yelling and slapping at her hands. No attack came and she crept closer. Her hands fluttered uncertainly over the fly of Mitchell's jeans. "OK. OK, zipper. Right. Oh, bloody hell. George, I hate you." She inched forward.

"Don' talk about George while you're undoin' m' pants," a slurred Irish voice said. Despite the drunken lilt, Mitchell's voice was full of familiar dark honey. Annie squealed and snatched her hands back.

"Mitchell! Have you been awake this whole time?" Annie was mortified.

"Mm. No, but this was worth wakin' up for." Mitchell slewed sideways in an ungainly attempt to right himself. His outstretched arm hit the heater tower and sent it spinning. Annie caught it before it tipped. "Help me up, I cn' do m' own pants," he chuckled. Annie made to pull Mitchell to his feet, but the vampire shook his head. "No, can't stand. Jus' help me sit up, I cn' shimmy out then."

"Alright. I'll turn around. Tell me when you're decent." Annie did as promised and stared, unseeing, at the blank television while Mitchell struggled with wet denim. Abruptly, the mingled sounds of cursing and flapping fabric stopped.

"Mitchell?" Mitchell didn't answer. Reluctant to catch him in a state of complete undress, Annie wavered uncertainly, studying the television as if something of importance were displayed there. Her phantom heart skipped a sudden beat when she realized Mitchell's reflection on the sofa was etched quite clearly in the glass screen. He had managed only one leg of his track pants before succumbing to another drunken swoon. "Oh, thank God he wears knickers," Annie breathed as she spun around. Secretly, she had always wondered; Mitchell did wear his jeans _aw_fully tight.

George returned, humming innocently, as Annie was straightening Mitchell's sweater. "Fantastic," George applauded, noting Annie's success in changing Mitchell's pants. "I thought you'd still have him starkers, but you've actually pulled it off. You'd be great in elder care." George beamed. He opened the pre-lit spruce and examined the contents.

Annie glowered. "Just assemble the tree," she said through gritted teeth. "And you _will_ decorate."

George pushed up his glasses. "Fair enough. Are we putting up both trees?"

"I think we'd better. Mitchell went to an awful lot of trouble."

"Yes," George mused. "I can't imagine where he got the second one. You realize the lots aren't open this early, don't you?"

Annie's face crumpled. "They're not? Now I feel even worse. George, let's make these trees truly spectacular." As an afterthought, she added, "And try not to wee on them this year."

It was George's turn to glare. He pulled out a box of lights from the plastic bag Mitchell had had with him in the cab. "Outdoor rated. No accidents possible."

Happily, Annie patted Mitchell's hand. "He thinks of everything." Her brown eyes filled with tender affection.

* * *

**AN: Hm. Wonder what trouble Mitchell got into while he was out... Follow to find out!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Happy New Year! So I feel like a giant heel for not getting this up in time for Christmas, since it ****is**** actually _about_ Christmas... I meant to post on Christmas day, but an ice storm knocked out our power for several days before Christmas and didn't come back on until the morning after. So a belated Merry Christmas as well. :)**

* * *

No one else could see this apparition

But because of my condition

I fell in love with a little ghost and that was all

- Little Ghost, The White Stripes

Crumpled in a beam of yellow light, Mitchell flung a weak arm over his head. Something was wrong with the sun. It was blinking, flashing a morse code of red misery across the insides of his eyelids.

"Mitchell..." A voice spoke across a great distance. The sun ceased its bothersome flashing.

"Ungh," Mitchell replied.

"_Mitchell_."

Mitchell groaned. Grudgingly, he cracked an eye. "George," he acknowledged with a groggy nod. He regretted the movement as it sent a wave of misery crashing through his head. Already tenuous, his focus went into a violent tailspin. Peering over him, George's earnest face wavered irresolutely in and out of being.

"Morning," George spoke in a normal tone, but it boomed in Mitchell's head like the voice of an accusing god. "Welcome back."

"Cheers," Mitchell hissed. He swung his legs down and sat up. The world doubled and he hunched over, head in his hands.

"How was your bender?"

"Aces."

"How's your head?"

"Bloody fantastic."

"Liar."

"You're blinking too loud and I'm dying, how's that? I remember death, George, and it was this."

"Good to know that death is no worse than a spectacular hangover. I wondered what great secret from beyond you and Annie were keeping from me." George sat down on the sofa, nudging Mitchell over. Mitchell slid down the leather cushion, wincing at the rubbery feeling in his muscles. He risked a glance out the window. It was full dark. There were no lights inside or out. The mysterious sun had vanished.

"Mitchell?" said George.

"Mmph?"

George pushed his glasses up his nose in a businesslike manner. A bad sign, one Mitchell would have recognized immediately had he not lapsed back into a half-doze. His head dipped, chin grazing the neck of his wool sweater.

George continued. "Was it _really_ a good idea for you to get completely pissed, then ride home in a cab, _alone,_ with a human?"

Mitchell's eyes shot open. "Eh? What did I do? Oh, Christ, did I do something? I don't remember any cab. No, I can't have. I still feel... _empty_." He looked up, and the hollow longing in his eyes made George shiver.

"No, it's fine, you didn't hurt anyone," George hastily assured him, unsettled. The vampire slumped with relief. "At least, not as far as we can tell. But you _could_ have, you can see that. You should have called, I would have come to get you. That would have been the safest thing."

Mitchell shook his head and winced. He patted his backside in search of a cigarette, then took in that he was wearing track pants. He examined himself further and discovered that he was also wearing a frumpy, vaguely familiar sweater; ivory, cable knit wool, with little woven balls that looked like pieces of popcorn.

He frowned. "I thought Annie might need you. She's gone... funny. Yelled at me. Locked me out. What the hell am I wearing?"

George pouted. "I gave you that sweater last Christmas."

"Sorry." Mitchell spotted his jeans on the floor. He fumbled through his pockets, came up victorious, and stuck a cigarette between his lips. Fiddling for a lighter, he felt something crinkle beneath his fingers and pulled a yellow paper folded into quarters. Curious, he smoothed the creases against his knee and squinted at a cloud of floating midges on the page. His vision balked stupidly. For all Mitchell could decipher he was examining one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or a coffee-stained restaurant placemat. Turning the paper sideways, he took a last stab at translation. Defeated, he passed the page to George with a shrug.

"I would just like to say for the record," Mitchell began, lighting his cigarette and inhaling in deep appreciation of the transient relief that washed over him, "that I did nothing wrong. Over the past hundred years or so, I've become adept at telling when I have, and I _know_, beyond a shadow of doubt, that _this_ was not one of those times." He emphasized each point by jabbing a finger at his knee.

George was scanning the yellow paper closely, a furrow deepening behind the bridge of his glasses. "You might want to hold on to that thought," he said, and began reading aloud. "Destruction of public property... £750 fine, to be paid by one John Mitchell..."

The cigarette slid from its perch. Agitated, brushing ash from his lap, Mitchell stuttered, "£750? Is that a _police report_?"

George nodded gravely. He skipped down to where a long hand-written description detailed Mitchell's latest criminal spree. "It says that you cut down a tree in the middle of Victoria Park. When asked why you were cutting said tree, you informed the police, in front of a crowd of spectators, that you were "Father Fucking Christmas" and that this tree was for "the Ghost of Christmas Past." George lowered the paper. "Mitchell, what are we even doing here? We're supposed to be living below the radar. Do you know how lucky you are to have been sent home in a taxi instead of being booked on the spot?"

Mitchell shot from the sofa and paced the room. The walls pulsed in time to the non-existent thud of blood in his ears. He rubbed his temples. "They could have taken my picture, I wouldn't even have known. Christ, I couldn't have stopped them, not unless Herrick..."

George held up a hand and continued. "You then attempted to bribe the fine officers of Bristol with a half empty box of Hobnobs, suggesting that they forget they ever saw you. It was only natural to do so, you said, because you were dead anyway. When the police politely declined your proposition, you handed the remaining biscuits out to the crowd shouting, "Nollaig shona dhaoibh!*****"". George stopped and folded the paper. He removed his glasses. They dangled from his hand as he leaned his elbows on his knees.

Mitchell sneered and shook his head. "Ah, that bit's rubbish. I never had any Hobnobs last night."

Eyebrows raised, George plucked an empty biscuit box from behind a stack of teacups and waggled it accusingly. "This was in the cab with you. The driver left the shopping bag you were carrying. Also inside the bag were a string of outdoor rated white Christmas lights and a hacksaw, thankfully not bloody."

"Why would the hacksaw be bloody?" growled Mitchell, frantically relighting his fallen cigarette, desperate for a dose of nicotine zen.

George shrugged angrily. "One never knows with you."

Mitchell froze. "That was low, George," he said quietly.

George was abashed. "Sorry. It got away from me."

Mitchell let George's comment go with a wave. "Well. What I meant before was that I didn't do anything wrong to _Annie_. That," he said, motioning at the police report, "does actually jibe with the few bits of last night that I can recall."

"Annie doesn't think you did anything wrong."

"Then let's not tell her about this."

"I _meant_," George clarified, exasperated, "that she doesn't think you did anything wrong to_ her_. And I don't like secrets, Mitchell. We have enough already."

"But this is only one tiny, _wee_ secret," Mitchell pressed. "In light of our usual kind, anyhow."

"Very reassuring. When I tell Annie, I'm sure that will make her feel better. This sort of thing concerns us all."

Mitchell glared at George then squinted around the dark room. "Where is Annie, anyhow?"

"Making amends. Not that you deserve any, as it turns out."

"I tried." Nettled, Mitchell blew smoke in George's direction. He was slightly mollified now that Annie apparently recognized that he had made an honest effort. "What _was_ all this, some sort of woman thing? She hit me with it from out of nowhere."

George slid away from Mitchell's halo of smoke. "I do wish you'd do that outside," he sighed. "And no, it was a ghost thing, actually. A dead person thing."

Mitchell's face softened. "Now I feel like a bastard again. I should have realized."

"I think you did, subconsciously. At least, you did while you were drunk. It's odd," George mused, "you're actually more intelligent when you're pissed."

"How's that?"

"Before we got you out of the cab, Annie leaned over and you said, 'Annie, we're not the trees.'"

"I did?"

"Mm hm."

Mitchell shook his head. "What does that even mean?" He looked up. "What did Annie say?"

"She said 'I know.' "

Mitchell closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. "I'm still a bit reely. I don't understand."

"Well, it's Annie logic, so it's a bit convoluted, but basically you brought a _ghost_ a plastic tree, something that mimics a real, living thing. It was kind of a symbolic nose-rub. Ordinarily, that might not have made such an impact, but apparently Annie hasn't been visible to others for some time now. And in the taxi, I think you were telling her that, heart beat or no, she isn't just some pale imitation of life to you."

"I'm very profound when I'm in drink."

"Don't let it go to your head. Profound is not your norm. Usually you only want to have a wrestle."

"It's not too late for a wrestle."

"Oh, it's definitely too late." George got up swiftly and went to the window. He rapped his knuckle against the frosted glass and peered outside. "Annie, aren't you done yet?"

Annie materialized in the middle of the room. "Oh, thank God you're awake!" She rushed Mitchell, rambling nervously. "I wasn't entirely sure if vampires could get alcohol poisoning, then I figured that they probably _could_ but then they would just get better anyway..." Mitchell's head reeled as he tried to keep up.

George grinned and backed out of the room.

Annie took a breath. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she began again. "Mitchell, I'm so, _so_ sorry. I should never have asked you to go in the first place, and I can't stand myself for locking you out when you came back. I shouldn't even be asking you to forgive me." She bit her lip and stared penitently at her lap, where her hands were tightly clasped.

"No, you shouldn't be asking," Mitchell said. He took Annie's hands.

She blinked up, tears welling. "I really am sorry, Mitchell!"

Mitchell smiled gently. "I meant, you shouldn't be asking because there's nothing to forgive. Annie, why didn't you tell us you couldn't be seen again?"

"I didn't want to bother you with my little problems. You both have enough of your own."

"It's never a bother if you need to talk. Certainly it's less bother than being sent out on a fruitless errand in the middle of a snow storm." Mitchell leaned against her, nudging her in a gently playful way with his shoulder. "I'm joking. Let's have a smile."

Annie laughed, wiping away tears. "So are we're all right now?"

Mitchell smiled. "We always were."

"Come outside, then," Annie said. "I want to show you something." She disappeared abruptly and Mitchell was left holding hands with the air. He plodded to the door and opened it, cringing as a blast of cold hit him.

Annie was standing in snow up to her knees. Light flakes like fairy dust mingled with her ghostly curls.

Mitchell shivered. "Aren't you cold? No, of course not." He smiled at the foolishness of his question. "What are you doing out here?"

"I want to show you something," said Annie almost shyly. "Wait." She bent and fumbled in the snow. She held up two electrical cords and plugged them together. White light blazed around them.

Mitchell turned. The source of the glow, the Christmas tree he had pilfered from Victoria Park that evening, stood proudly in a snowy halo at the corner of the little pink house. Annie had outfitted it with silver tinsel and glittering pinecones until the light was magnified and scintillating brightly. Strings of lights outlined the door and windows, and bunches of holly, an Irish Christmas tradition, decked the door frame and window sills.

Mitchell laughed happily and went to Annie's side. They stood shoulder to shoulder, admiring the view, Mitchell shivering lightly. "It's lovely, Annie. The holly is the perfect touch," he said softly.

Annie glowed with delight.

A police car slowed and pulled along the curb. The window rolled down and a young officer with a cherubic face leaned out. "Evening," he called. "Or morning, more like. It's 4 a.m."

Annie glanced nervously at Mitchell and took his hand protectively. Mitchell tightened his fist, trying to make it look like he was not holding hands with an invisible person. He squinted at the officer uncertainly. "You were at the park."

_"Park?"_ Annie mouthed in confusion.

The officer nodded at Mitchell as if pleased with the progress of a small child. "Officer Barrett. I signed your citation. I'm surprised you remember."

Mitchell laughed. "I don't remember. But it seemed safe to assume."

Annie raised her eyes to Mitchell in a You'd-better-tell-me-now expression.

It came as a surprise to them both when Officer Barrett looked directly at Annie. "Well, it all makes a bit more sense to me now," he smiled. "Love and all that. Hope I didn't just get you into more trouble."

Annie managed a blush and Mitchell stuttered.

Officer Barrett nodded pleasantly. "Keep your feller in line from now on, Miss, but don't be too hard on him. Merry Christmas!" He pulled away with a wave.

Annie twinkled brightly. "Yes, sir!" she called after the receding patrol car. Once the car cruised out of sight she grabbed Mitchell's arm and squealed, "He could see me!"

Mitchell smiled. "Yeah."

Annie's face shifted sternly and she stopped skipping. "Now what did you do to bring the police to our door?"

Sheepishly, Mitchell winced. "Might have cut that tree down from Victoria Park," he admitted.

Annie considered. "That's not so bad."

"Relatively speaking, no."

"I forgive you."

Mitchell snorted. "That's good. It's your fault."

"Just how much did this tree end up costing us?"

"A damned sight more than the perfectly nice fake one."

Annie grinned. "Then it's a good thing I put them both to good use. _This_ tree represents our public face. The face we show the world. Normal, and, you know, _living_." She grabbed Mitchell's cold hand. "But inside is where the magic happens."

She waved her hand and on cue the living room window filled with blinking, twinkling light. George waved to them cheerfully from inside.

"Come on!" Annie said excitedly, tugging Mitchell forward.

Gladly, Mitchell followed her back into the warm house. The living room, which had been kept dark during his talk with George, had been transformed while he slept. Holly decked ninety percent of the room; it lined the mantle, the windows, the doorway, the television... Annie had even threaded it between the tines of the coatrack. Mitchell was touched by Annie's sweetly over-the-top nod to his heritage.

Then there was the tree.

"It's a little unorthodox," Annie said, watching Mitchell's face , "but that's us, isn't it?"

The artificial spruce stood before a backdrop of holly in front of the fireplace. It was a vision of white; spun glass balls, white ribbon tied in wide bows, popcorn strung in great swooping swags, and dozens of lacy cut-paper snowflakes covered every inch. It was beautiful, of course, but it was Annie's special touches that made the greatest impact. Among the more traditional Christmas decorations flitted glowing tissue paper ghosts, each haloed by the twinkling white lights. Tetley teabags hung like ornaments from the branches, filling the room with a sweet, spicy smell. To represent George, Annie had strung Milk Bone dog biscuits on strings, and for Mitchell there were tiny plastic bats dangling beside the ghosts.

Mitchell had remained silent too long for Annie's comfort. She was almost squirming, she was so anxious to hear his opinion. "Do you like it?" she asked finally.

Mitchell slid his arm through hers and around her back. "I love it, Annie. It's absolutely perfect. Except..."

"Yes?"

"Where did you get the biscuits? And the bats? And all the holly?"

Annie blushed. "Well I _am_ a ghost," she said, somewhat defensively. "I might have popped up in the Pritchard's apartment next door. They've got that monstrous dog that barks day and night. The bats were in with the halloween decorations."

"And the holly?"

"I might have done some light pruning."

"Where?"

"Ironically, at Victoria Park."

Mitchell was shaking against Annie's side. Her first thought was to rush him back to the heater. Then she realized that he was laughing. "Annie. Our house is decorated with contraband."

"Yeah. It's sort of perfect, isn't it?"

Mitchell looked down at her, his eyes warm with a strange glow. "Almost," he said. He closed his eyes and leaned in, meaning to kiss Annie's cheek.

She turned her head purposely and tilted her chin up.

Their lips met as snow continued to swirl lightly outside. For a second, Mitchell froze in surprise, but he did not pull away. Then he was kissing her back, in a way Annie hadn't been kissed since she was living, and perhaps not even then. It came to her that she and Mitchell weren't imitating life; they were surmounting it.

After a time, feeling dazed and pleased, she pulled slowly away. Mitchell smiled down at her with the same look of wonder she felt blooming on her own face.

"Now it's perfect," he said.

FINISH

* * *

*** Mitchell was shouting "Happy Christmas" in Gaelic.**

**Please review? For my Christmas present?**


End file.
